


My My Miss Montecore

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Stream of Consciousness, Way too many tiger metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Permission to fire?”<br/>Clint finds it funny that now, after everything, she’s asking for his permission, but he can’t seem to stifle the bit of pride when he gives her the go and within seconds, their target is down, a bloody smear against the wall behind him. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Natasha's first mission at SHIELD doesn't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My My Miss Montecore

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to skip this:  
> Until canon tells me otherwise, this is how I think of pre-SHIELD Natasha: At a young age, for whatever reason, she was taken in by the Red Room to become an assassin. The RR acted as her handler up until Clint found her, even if she did do some work by herself or with the KGB. It was stated in the comics that they could use numerous things to keep their assassins in control-memory manipulation being the big one, which they can use to make their assassins new people, so to speak, and brainwash them by using different sounds and smells. So up until she's (unwillingly) taken to SHIELD, she's never really been her own person or been in charge of her own actions. And once she's there she kind of goes into... withdraw I guess? So it takes her quite a while to get back to her prime, and be fully functional and trustworthy enough for SHIELD to send out in the field. Up until then Clint and Coulson are basically in charge of her and of taking care of her.  
> TL;DR: Natasha's still kinda crazy at this point, y'all. The RR screwed up her brain.

It isn’t a perfect match, Clint thinks, but still the resemblance is there. The piercing eyes, lean gait; that fear that comes with working too closely with the exotic and untamed.  
And maybe he’s crazy, sitting in the HQ’s clinic with an old magazine in hand and comparing Natasha with a tiger ( _Siegfried and Roy: Five Years Later_ , the headline says, and he’s hoping that he and Mr. Horn will not share similar tales) but it really is ridiculous how long they’ve had him sitting in here, and Fury is doing it on purpose—Clint is almost positive. Because he has to be _rational about this_ and _think out the consequences_ , as if he hasn’t been every night for a week, and it seems Fury is giving him one last chance to back out.  
But he can’t. This is Natasha’s first mission at SHIELD (even though it’s not really; she isn’t to do anything, Fury has said, just getting a feel for the protocol) and he isn’t pulling her out of it, won’t dare to show her the lack of faith that has everyone else whispering. Because really, she’s made so much progress that he could cry—she’s taken to speaking in complete sentences (and always in English, now, even though he still doesn’t always understand what she says), and no longer makes him take a bite out of her food before she’ll eat it, and it’s been weeks since they’ve been trusting her with a knife at dinner—and _really_ , there’s nothing much scarier than Natasha with a new knife and vodka (it had been her birthday, Fury was still a little angry about it), so the mission should be a piece of cake.  
Except, he’s finding, staring down into the bolded words of _Show Tiger Mauls Handler_ , that maybe there are scarier things. But then Hill is coming into the room and telling him he’s all checked out and approved for the mission (it’s a simple one; wait on some roofs, take down a few guys, in out no fuss) and his bags are packed and he’s waiting outside for the chopper before his brain catches up to the fact that he’s moved. So he leans against the rail on the sidewalk and rubs his hands and just breathes, and tries not to show his nerves (she’ll be fine, he thinks, just there to watch protocol) when a suit strolls up beside him.  
“Nervous?” he says, and it’s a dumb question because of course he is, and of course he can’t say that, and of course this guy knows it.  
“No,” Clint says instead, “It’s a simple mission.”  
There’s a pause and the guy is about to retort when he hears, “I think he means about bringing along your _pet_.”  
And Clint probably would’ve decked them if it hadn’t been Natasha, but she’s suddenly there not an inch from him (and when did she get so quiet, he wonders) and she’s leaning against the rail with him but facing the opposite direction—back to the rail, casual as can be—and she’s grinning at the suit just to show her teeth. It’s subtle and aggressive and has got the suit shuffling away, suddenly not interested anymore, and her expression slips back down to cool; empty besides the barest hint of amusement. Settle down Miss Montecore, he wants to say, but he isn’t sure most Russians know what Las Vegas is, much less Siegfried and Roy, and she really only got to America a few months ago so he doesn’t say anything.  
She studies him for a few moments and says “Well?” and then slips on her sunglasses (he hates when he can’t see her eyes), “Nervous?”  
“It’s a simple mission,” he says again, because he hates lying to her, and instead focuses on how red her hair looks when the sun is setting.  
She runs her tongue over her teeth, “I’ll be fine,” she says.  
“I know.”  
“Just protocol.”  
“I know.” 

And later, he really doesn’t know what he was worried about. Because so far all they’ve been doing is lying on a roof; he’s watching for the target—still, four hours off schedule—and she’s staring up at the sky and drumming her fingers on her stomach, the Kevlar softening the sound.  
Either someone gave them faulty information, or something inside the building has gone wrong, but a small part of him is almost glad (the assassin part is angry at the waste of time, the other, as-of-yet unnamed part, is relieved). He’s about to call to Coulson and ask if they should pack up, when Natasha gives a noisy sigh.  
“This is ridiculous,” she mumbles, and if he were someone else it would’ve been too quiet to hear, “He’s in the building. Let’s just go get him.”  
“This is supposed to be quiet: no extra attention, no collateral damage if we can help it. If all this went according to _plan_ ,” he grumbled, “the target would’ve come out, alone, at exactly fourteen-hundred, we would’ve dropped him, and we’d be gone before anyone could raise the alarm.”  
“Or we could sneak in, off him, hide the body, and _still_ be out before anyone raised the alarm.”  
“I’m not close-combat,” he says, and frowns as his only response is a raised eyebrow and a pointed look, “ _No_. Don’t even—no Natasha.”  
“Oh _come on_ , Fury doesn’t have to know.”  
“You do realize we’re on comms, right?”  
With the smallest grin she raises her hand, and he can’t help but gawk at the two small, black communicators dangling off her pinky.  
“How— When did you— _Natasha_.” He tries to sound stern, honestly. But the surprise mixed in a little too much and it came out sounding suspiciously like awe.  
“Few minutes ago.” He snatches his back from her and clips it to his ear as she defends herself, “They haven’t said anything, so don’t make that face.”  
Clint clenches his jaw, shifting for a clearer view of their target’s hideout. “I told Fury you were ready for this. Don’t make me take it back.”  
Natasha pushes a huff of air through her nose and rolls back over onto her stomach (he can’t help but notice the distance she’s put between them), her uncovered elbows biting into the gravel. “Look, I’m just trying to help.”  
Something in her tone strikes deep into his chest, and Clint tries his hardest not to look at her.  
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe it was too soon. Nothing had even happened yet and she was already retreating; what could he expect if they’d somehow gotten themselves in trouble? Triggers had proven to be one of Natasha’s major weak points (someone had left ballet slippers in the locker room; Natasha locked herself in her closet for an hour), and yet here he was, dragging her out in the field amid guns and targets and assassinations and _what was he thinking_?  
And suddenly, frighteningly, Fury’s stares and Coulson’s frowns and Hill’s nerves and everyone’s doubt seem much more real, much more justified. Because she is his tiger and he is the magician and there are no stage hands or partners to help him here. To hell with intentions, teeth still drew blood.  
With a sigh he pushes himself onto his knees, crawling a ways from her and rising to a half-crouching position. There was the smallest window in which they could see into the hide out; if their target, or anyone really, was in sight, they’d stay. If not, he was calling it a day and they’d regroup and evaluate back at HQ.  
“I know. I _know_ , Nat, but look—“  
“Clint!”  
And then he was tumbling to the ground and she was scrambling on top of him and covering their heads, and the bullets whizzing by were only missing them by inches.  
“Sorry, that was rude of me, you were saying?” she grits, and he can feel her breath huffing against his ear, but is soon drowning her out with a soft chorus of “Shit shit shit shit _shit_ ” and wondering how long they’ve been waiting for him to stand up.  
No wonder they hadn’t seen any movement. It was hard to stake someone out who’d beaten you to the punch.  
And the firing lulled for only a moment, but his tiger, it was all she needed. In a flash she was gone, skittering and diving onto a lower roof and shielding herself from his view.  
 _“Nervous?”  
“No. It’s a simple mission.” _  
For a split second he wonders if that’s it, if it’s the opportunity she’s been waiting for, if she’s taken off and if he’ll ever see her again (and if he does, he knows there’s only two options; enemy or dead). But then rounds are being shot back and he dully notes the lack of weight in his holster, and _oh she’s a sneaky one_.  
And then he reminds himself that he needs to move, needs to breathe, needs to make sure she’s safe and okay and take out the damn bastard that set them up, so he rolls back to his crossbow and takes aim, and with a _thwmp_ the arrow has imbedded itself in the neck of a sniper across the street. He unloads a few more, marveling at how many men are suddenly swarming them, when his earpiece crackles against his eardrum.  
“Blue shirt, your two o’clock. That’s our guy?”  
He checks and confirms.  
“Permission to fire?”  
Clint finds it funny that now, after everything, she’s asking for his permission, but he can’t seem to stifle the bit of pride when he gives her the go and within seconds, their target is down, a bloody smear against the wall behind him. And then she’s flipping into his line of sight, down on the street where most of the men are—and he picks off the stragglers, but honestly she doesn’t need much help. She’s spinning and kicking and shooting (and where did she get two guns, he only had the one) and sometimes he almost lets himself forget why SHIELD wanted her gone in the first place.  
It’s only after the fighting has stopped that he’s aware anything is wrong. But she goes down hard on one knee and is bracing herself up with her arm and he bites “Are there any more?” into the earpiece. “Natasha?”  
He sees her shaking her head before Clint can hear the breathy “No” in his ear, and by that time he’s already slipping down the fire escape. She still hasn’t moved and he crashes down next to her and is trying to force her shoulders up when he sees the blood—not others’, hers—seeping out from beneath her fingers from where she has them planted just under her ribs.  
No no no no no no no.  
It forms a steady mantra with each beat of his heart, and it takes him longer than it should to flip his communicator back to the quinjet’s channel and say, “Agent down, requesting medical help immediately.”  
There’s an “ETA three minutes” from the other side but he barely hears it, just flips one of her arms over his shoulder, hooks his thumb in one of the belt loops on her pants and hoists her up, trying to ignore the hiss of breath between her teeth after each step. He manages to drag her to a bit of hidden alleyway, not much—but safer than the open street, and runs a small blade over the fabric covering her back. The vest (which is practically destroyed in the front, he notes, frayed and bloodied) is undamaged, and he runs his fingers down it, feeling for any imperfection.  
“No exit wound, huh?”  
He doesn’t want to hear the pain in her voice, see the way she shivers, but he swallows and steels himself and says, “No.”  
“Don’t know what kind of gun it was,” she says, and he thinks it’s a good idea to keep her talking until the quinjet arrives, so he pushes her back to lean against the wall and pushes down hard on the wound, “I di-didn’t really notice until after.” He hates the hitch in her voice. Hates it possibly more than he’s ever hated anything in his entire life.  
“Keep talking,” he says as her eyes slip.  
“Sorry I fucked protocol.” She’s staring right at him, and smiles a little (it’s nervous, she never smiles at him like that) and he picks up one of his hands to brush his thumb over her forehead. The red matches her hair.  
“Don’t be apologizing to me—just wait till Coulson busts our asses. He’s not gonna let me get you any more vodka, you realize that right?”  
She gives a moan, perhaps the most pitiful sound he’s ever heard out of her, and he wants to laugh. After everything that she’s been through (the torture, mental and physical; the fear; the bullet currently lodged somewhere between her stomach lining and rib cage) it’s the lack of alcohol she seems to dread the most.  
Then the quinjet is roaring into the street next to them, narrowly avoiding bodies and pools of blood, and she murmurs to herself in Russian. Despite the placidness, Clint is sure none of those words would be allowed to fly under a PG rating.  
Medics are swarming them, and they’re armed with oxygen and a stretcher and bandages and needles, and they try to take her away, to push him back. But he fights them, stays close to her side and holds her hand and tries to tell them, tries to warn them, _don’t you know how dangerous she is?_ What she could do to you? He needs to protect her—he tries to say—so they don’t get bitten.  
They don’t fight him once they’re in the air, headed back to HQ (it’s the only place they feel safe enough to treat her, Coulson tells him, but doesn’t elaborate when Clint questions it), just let him sit next to her, chair pulled close as it can get to give them room to work, and slowly chord his fingers into her hair. Her breathing is slow and even, and he dully wonders if she even knows where she is, what’s going on. Because she doesn’t seem to notice when they rip off her shirt and vest and start picking Kevlar out of the gaping hole in her stomach. Doesn’t flinch when they pour things over it and dab at it and slip needles into the few places where her skin isn’t broken. She just breathes, slowly, evenly, out her mouth, and watches him.  
And goddamnit he _hates it_. Hates that he has to look her in the eye—those terrifying, predatory, beautiful eyes—and not be able to tell her that it’ll be okay. Because he doesn’t know. And that scares him, makes him angry: the not knowing. Makes him want to blow a hole through the side of the jet and dangle a medic off it by his collar and say _fix her_. But the small, fleeting, logical part of his brain tells him that they’re trying; that’s she’s still here isn’t she?  
Yes, he admits, but it’s not good enough.  
Belatedly he realizes they’re back at HQ. And his brain is swimming and they’re in the hallway, and he still hasn’t let go of her hand (the doctor doesn’t approve, he thinks, by the way he’s frowning at him. He almost tells the good doctor to go fuck himself). But then they _are_ pulling her away, and this time he can’t fight. Fury has a hand on his shoulder and Coulson is holding him back, and maybe they’re talking, he doesn’t know. Because all he can hear are those panicked noises coming from her throat, all he can see is her hand flexing for his, eyes trying to search for him against the darkness.  
Why is he sitting down? He doesn’t particularly remember, which worries Clint because he usually remembers everything. He’s been forgetting things more and more lately, around Natasha (it’s focus diversion, his mind provides, all apart of the magic show).  
“-but after that it’ll take around six hours-“  
“What?” Clint says, because Coulson _had_ been talking, and probably about Natasha, so he wants to know what he missed. You know, when that whole I-can’t-hear-oh-look-I’m-on-the-floor thing happened.  
Coulson, who is on the floor with him, which Clint appreciates, clears his throat and starts again.  
“Right now they’re treating her for shock and trying to assess the damage,” he says, “And after they do that they’re going to take her in to surgery. If everything goes well, it’ll take about six hours. We aren’t sure if the bullet nicked her stomach, but they don’t think it’s ruptured. That might take more time, though.”  
Clint doesn’t say anything for a while (but what is he supposed to say? What are people supposed to say when their adopted-pet-project-master-Russian-assasin-maybe-best-friend-totally-batshit-crazy-partner gets shot because they screwed up? Because they didn’t know it was a trap, didn’t see the gun? He doesn’t know, so he stays quiet. And thinks, somehow, that Coulson heard all of it). Coulson’s ankles must be getting tired of squatting in loafers, because he plops down on his butt next to Clint ( _all class, these two_ ) and sits next to him on the cold tile floor in the middle of a SHIELD medical ward hallway and doesn’t say a word. Coulson kind of rocks, Clint decides, because he doesn’t know if he could handle words right now (and given the situation they’d either be deeply probing or chit chat, and _what’s behind door number three?_ ).  
Eventually, though, after enough gurneys glare as they try to get past, nurses with arms too full tripping around their legs, Fury pulls him up with his one-eyed-gaze-of-austerity and tells him to “Go get some rest.” Because, obviously, Clint was about to go run a marathon.  
So Coulson leads him to the rec room—which seems to have been recently evacuated, probably on Fury’s orders—and pushes him in front of the cabinet of movies the agents have collected over the years. Clint stares at it for a while. Or rather, one particular movie, that he really really hopes he isn’t actually considering watching. Coulson had given it to him as a gag gift, months ago, when he’d first brought Natasha back to base.  
 _“Just so you know what you’re dealing with,”_ Coulson had joked.  
Now, he comes back from the kitchenette with two cups of hot chocolate and a first aid kit, and sits Clint down on the couch and puts the DVD in the player.  
They watch Anastasia twice, all the way through, and the credits have looped back around to the beginning when Fury walks in.  
“We have a problem,” Fury says, at the same time Clint thinks _Mom and Natasha had the same colored eyes_ and _maybe it’s karma_.  
Clint still isn’t speaking, so Coulson eloquently says “Huh?”  
Fury is diligently pretending not to notice the television. Laugh at them for it, Clint almost begs, give him something to fight about. Fury doesn’t. Neither does Clint.  
“Anesthesia wore off too soon. She broke two doctors’ arms, three noses, knocked out a nurse, and is currently AWOL. I was hoping you’d know where to find her.”  
Coulson looks at Clint. Clint doesn’t look back. “Condition?” he asks instead.  
“The surgery went off without a hitch, but they were still sowing her back into one piece when she woke up. The way she was moving around, there’s a good chance she’s going to rip it all back open. And I don’t want to be cleaning guts off my floor, so _find her_.”  
Fury’s unspoken words ring clear to Clint: _She’s hurt, she’s scared, and she’s dangerous. And I don’t want her to die._ So he stands up and grabs what’s left of the first aid kit and pushes past the other two men without a word. Behind him, he can hear Coulson arguing, “Shouldn’t we be sending more men out?” and Fury’s laugh of, “Please, Agent, she’d rip ‘em to shreds.”  
She would, Clint knows. An injured tiger is the most dangerous kind.  
So, Clint looks. He searches all of the bottom floor, and asks but no one has seen her leave, which is good, at least. He looks in all the stairwells, and the roof, and the gym. He is checking her room (which she has no particular attachment to, so it’s no surprise she isn’t here) when the thought occurs that he may need a tranquilizer. He only gives himself a minute to debate it before deciding it may be necessary to get her back to the infirmary, so he bangs open the door to his room and starts rummaging through his drawers.  
It’s in here somewhere, he knows. His hands aren’t shaking, he thinks.  
He doesn’t let himself stop to wonder if she’s already dead. If she found some small place to hide in and bled out. If the strain of movement really did rip the wound open enough for her organs to get pushed out (he wants to thank Fury for that horrifying mental image). He doesn’t wonder if she’s scared. He doesn’t.  
He lets his hand close around the tranquilizer dart and makes himself take a second to breathe, in out in out. When he stops to swallow down the lump in his throat, he realizes that the breath, in out in out, hasn’t stopped. The _in_ is long and rasping and painful, and the _out_ is nothing but a huff, but it’s there and it’s _most definitely not his_ , so he goes over and turns on the light. He takes a second longer than he should to make himself turn around, because at least she’s alive right? But he doesn’t want to see how much damage she’s done to herself; if she’s past the point of helping. After a moment he forces his feet to move, and then he’s looking at her and she’s staring right back at him and _goddammit don’t do that again_ , he wants to say. But he doesn’t. Just takes a few steps towards her and says, “Tasha?”  
She’s pale and shaking and breathing hard, and has herself pushed up to the corner of the wall and his bed. He pretends not to notice tear trails, just for now. And though she stares, her eyes saying _help please, just help_ , she practically growls when he comes closer. “Tasha?” he asks again, but the name doesn’t seem to faze her at all.  
So he drops the dart and the kit and pushes them behind him with his foot, kneels down on his knees, spreads his palms and says, “ _Natalia._ ”  
She pauses for only a moment, before something like a sob escapes her throat, and one arm (the other remains dutifully holding her stomach) snaps up, fingers reaching out. He scrambles over to her and wraps himself around her and lets her bury her face into the crook of his neck. He can feel the warmth of blood through his shirt, and tangles one of his hands into her hair, and lets himself breathe her in for a moment, calm his nerves. Eventually, reluctantly, he pulls back, just enough to see her face.  
“Nat,” he whispers, trying to coax her eyes open, searching (what was he looking for? Fear? Recognition?), and continues when finally he can see a slip of green from under her lashes, “Sweetheart, do you know where you are?”  
He firmly tells himself that it was just a test, the use of the endearment, and nothing at all of real sentiment (right, because _Once Upon a December_ being stuck in his head was an obvious sign of his non-sentimentality). She doesn’t even bat an eyelash; doesn’t punch him, or kick him, or send back some scathing retort. Just looks up at him and swallows down what might have been fear and shakes her head.  
Natasha and wounds and anesthesia don’t mix. He’ll have to remember that. Next time they’ll stick with alcohol.  
“You’re at SHIELD, little tiger,” (nope, _no_ sentiment. None zero zilch), “You got hurt on a mission. They were trying to patch you up.”  
She seems to digest this for a moment, eyes working around—what was that, relief maybe? Not a common emotion for someone who had woken up mid-operation, punched out a few doctors, and was currently bleeding all over the floor. But hey, Clint’ll take it.  
“I thought…” her voice is too quiet, he thinks, too unsure, “I thought they were giving me another memory.”  
Oh.  
Of course she did.  
She’s spent her whole life waking up from memories, why would this time be any different? She may be out of the Red Room, but still, always, she’ll have that doubt. That nagging in the back of her head saying, _none of it is real. This life isn’t yours to live._  
He’ll kill them all, Clint thinks, but for now all he can do is smooth her hair behind her ear and give her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. It probably isn’t.  
“I didn’t want to wake up.”  
And this, probably above all else (amazing, considering the day’s events) throws him for a loop. Because if he’d been shot in the stomach he’d probably wish more than anything that he could wake up. There had been moments in his life—those awful, grisly moments, like now—that he often thought just that. So he has to ask.  
“What memory did you think they were giving you?”  
And she looks at him like _well isn’t it obvious_ , eyebrows all drawn together and eyes boring down into his, “You.”  
And he—just for a moment, he swears—wonders if he’s in a dream. If he’s the one lying on an operating table, and dreaming up the whole thing. Because it’s really the only explanation for why his stomach aches so suddenly, why he feels like _he_ just took a shot to the gut instead of her. He wonders if this is the doubt Natasha feels all the time. But it’s the very real sensation of her blood drying tacky on his clothes, of her hair between his fingers, the soft whoosh of breath against his neck, that tells him _no, it isn’t a dream_ (he kind of wishes it was). So he swallows and rubs his thumb on her cheek and says, “I’m real, I promise.”  
Eventually, he picks her up and carries her like some bloody bride back to the ward (her fingers find the steady rhythm in his chest and station themselves there). Coulson and Fury stand with a fresh smattering of doctors, and before they take her away again she makes him promise he’ll still be real when she wakes up. He does.  
Later, he sits by her bed and tries to think of things to say when she does wake up (the second operation went as well as the first, he counts his lucky stars). They’re all too professional or too mushy and she’d beat him either way. So when she opens her eyes and they’re sharper than he remembered, and the blood on both of them criss-crosses like stripes he says, “Welcome back, little tiger,” and she grins, just to show her teeth.

**Author's Note:**

> My first Avengers fanfiction, I'd love some crit or feedback :> And if there are any mistakes (no beta, sorry) or contradictions with movie cannon, please let me know!


End file.
